


You Always Mattered

by geeky__chick



Series: Burning the Heart [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post HLV, Slight fluff, a little angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:56:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2708156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geeky__chick/pseuds/geeky__chick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Moriarty's resurrection, Sherlock Holmes secures his friends and pays a visit to the one who always mattered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Always Mattered

**Author's Note:**

> My first Sherlolly.
> 
> Prequel to the second fic in this series, Burnt Heart.

It took him longer than he would have liked to get his brother off of his tail. The sudden, resurging fear of Moriarty gripped the whole of England, sending Scotland Yard and the British government into a tailspin. They had to find a way to quell the panic, but any direct action or response was likely to make it worse.

One text to Lestrade was all Sherlock could manage while he and the Watsons were being rushed away from the private airport where he was being sent to his doom.

_Get to Molly._

Lestrade responded, according to John Watson, with a simple: _Got it_.

Once they were briefed on the incident that ended Sherlock Holmes’ likely-fatal exile, he was released into John and Mary Watson’s care. His friends were worried, of course they were. One of the most gifted criminal masterminds in the world’s history – whom had been dead for nearly three years – had suddenly resurfaced.

Or had he?

Sherlock himself had stood on that roof. He watched James Moriarty lose his final battle, one-upping his nemesis the only way he could. Sherlock _watched_ the crimson-tinted gray matter spray the rooftop, heard the echoing crack of the gunshot. He had even seen Moriarty’s body laid out on the slab, his internal organs being sown back into his chest cavity.

No. It could not be Moriarty, of that he was certain.

Who, then?

It took Sherlock another few hours to secure the Watsons and Mrs Hudson. Though he knew Mary had her own skills, she was quite with child at the moment. John was still a soldier, though, and between the two of them, Sherlock was relatively certain they would remain unharmed.

To be safe, however, he had them removed to his parents’ home. The Holmes’ were glad of the company, and they were safer in greater numbers. Mycroft had specialists sitting on the house, after all.

Now that his family and Mrs Hudson were secure, Sherlock stepped into the quiet dark of St. Barts’ morgue.

He had said goodbye, Sherlock thought as he unwound the scarf from his throat. When the realisation occurred to him that his brother would have only one option for keeping him out of prison, he quietly asked to see his friends. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, and Molly had all come to the holding area, each bidding him goodbye in their own way.

It was a masculine hug from Lestrade, much like the one he received upon revealing that he had not plunged to his death from the roof of his ‘home from home’. Mrs Hudson had quite outdone herself with crying, eliciting a promise that he would look after himself.

From Molly, Sherlock only received a small smile. She accepted his apology for his behavior earlier in the year, before the shooting that had nearly killed him. In a moment of his own – surprising – human error, Sherlock revealed to the pathologist her role in saving his life.

_“It was you, once again, Molly Hooper.”_

_“Me? What’d I do?”_

_“You shocked me to focus, helped me deduce how to increase my chances at survival. I am firmly aware that without your aid, I would probably have died.”_

_“Well, I’m glad I could help, even if I wasn’t there.”_

_“You’re always there, Molly. Always.”_

_There was a moment, then, where they merely stared at one another. He was aware that a few of Mycroft’s men were nearby, watching to ensure he did not try to escape. Why would he bother? He had slain the dragon that needed it, and in doing so he protected the people that mattered most._

_He had done that once before, by faking his own death. This time, he would give up his life for them._

_It was a fair trade, in his mind._

_“You’re not coming back, are you?”_

_Sherlock thought, for perhaps the hundredth time since his resurrection, that it was always Molly. She saw through him, through the façade of what he thought of himself. From the moment she told him that he looked sad when he thought John wasn’t looking. In that moment, Sherlock realised that she no longer held him on the pedestal he once occupied in her mind._

_At some point, he had stopped being the unattainable dream. Instead, he was just a man, one that she called her friend._

_“No.” Sherlock told her what he could not, would not, tell the others. “I am not.”_

_She came closer to him. Sherlock did not back away, though he could read in her body language what she would do. Instead, he stepped closer, opening his arms to her. Molly bit back tears, blinking those beautifully dark eyes to keep the tears from spilling over. Even in this moment when she needed comfort, she endeavored to make him as comfortable as possible._

_When the tiny woman slid into his embrace, Sherlock held her tightly. Her arms wove around his waist, her head tucked into the dip between his pectorals. Sherlock rested his chin on the top of her head, where he could smell the strawberries of her shampoo. She had changed it again. The last smelt of oranges._

_For a long time, they said nothing. Molly held on to him and he held her close. Neither of them spoke, even when Mycroft came to take her away. Molly did not look back, as though it would be too painful to watch his face as she left him for the last time._

_If she had, Sherlock couldn’t have been sure what he would have done…_

“She wouldn’t go home.”

It was Detective Inspector Lestrade that spoke as Sherlock approached the morgue. From his body language and rumpled clothing, he hadn’t made it home himself. Apparently, his concern for Molly with the resurrection of Moriarty made him just as nervous about Molly’s wellbeing as Sherlock was. She was, of course, the lynchpin that pulled Moriarty’s plans tumbling down. He hadn’t calculated her as someone close to Sherlock, someone that mattered.

Moriarty, or the remnants of his network, would not make that mistake again.

“She was worried, I think,” the policeman offered as he pulled on his coat. “It shook her up, but she prefers to work.”

Sherlock nodded. That was a sentiment he understood completely. “I’ll see her home. Thankyou.”

Lestrade ran a hand over his short, graying hair. From the dark circles under his eyes and the frown lines etching themselves so deeply in his cheeks, Sherlock could tell sleep would be elusive for his old friend.

“I will meet with you tomorrow,” the consulting detective told the older man. “We can discuss the video feed then, mmm?”

There was a smile tugging on Lestrade’s mouth was he thumped Sherlock on the shoulder.

“Good. That’s good. I’m glad you’re not riding off into the sunset just yet.”

For his part, Sherlock gave his old friend a fleeting smile as he left. He had spent so much of his life avoiding entanglements, avoiding friendships. How had he managed to collect the most awkward, intelligent, ridiculous, loyal friends to ever grace the planet? It was something like a miracle and Sherlock refused to deduce anything from it. Alone could no longer protect him. His friends had long since proved that it was they who did so.

As Sherlock pushed into the morgue, he let his eyes do what they normally did. Immediately, his gaze swept the immediate area, searching for Molly’s slender frame and dark hair.

She was seated at the lab table, copying notes into a file with her distinct penmanship. Her hair was up in a little ponytail, which swayed when she moved to peer into the microscope beside her. Sherlock watched her for a moment, noting the slight tension in her posture, the gentle tremble in her usually-steady hands. There were nerves there, realisation that she would be a target now, because Sherlock had placed his trust in her.

Did she regret it?

On silent feet, Sherlock moved closer. He quietly pulled his coat off, laying it over the back of a desk chair that had no real reason to be in the room. His scarf lay atop it, leaving Sherlock with freedom of movement.

He wasn’t surprised when Molly looked up. There were tears unshed in her eyes, even as he reached her and drew the slender woman into his arms. In an exact reenactment of their goodbye, she wove her arms about his waist, rested her cheek against his chest.

“Don’t be afraid.” Sherlock murmured, stroking his hand over the side of her cheek. “It will be alright.”

“Will it?” Molly asked, her voice choked with emotion. “Promise me, Sherlock.”

Unable to help himself, Sherlock kissed the top of her strawberry-scented hair. His arms wove about her a touch more tightly, as if daring someone to come and try taking her away. They wouldn’t. He would see to that.

“I promise, Molly.” The detective whispered. “I would never allow otherwise.”

When she shifted as though to pull away, Sherlock released her. He hadn’t wanted to, content with having her in his arms. She fit there, rather like a puzzle piece, against his chest. The air was somewhat colder with her gone. Sherlock found he did not like that feeling. Not at all.

But Molly did not pull away completely. She tilted her lovely face back to meet his gaze, lifting her hands so that she could stroke the backs of her fingers along his cheeks.

“You came back.” She said, the tenderness in her eyes creating an uncomfortably tight feeling in Sherlock’s chest.

“Yes.” He nodded once, pleased that she had not stepped away from the warm circle of his embrace. “England needs me, according to Mycroft.”

Molly grinned. “Everyone needs you, Sherlock.”

“Do you?” He surprised himself by voicing the question.

For her part, Molly let a blush rise to the apples of her cheeks. “Yes.”

Sherlock nodded once, pulling her back into his arms.

“Good.”

The pathologist melted back into his arms, her hands locking behind his back. They remained that way for a long time, silent and content, until it was time to take her home.


End file.
